A Series of Unfortunate Events
by Ophium
Summary: Sam gets pinched in his ass..ets by a shard of glass in the worse possible place.And that's just the beginning of a really, really bad experience. Dean centric, mature themes, language. Spoilers up until 'Heaven and Hell'. Complete.


This is just a silly short story, written in a couple of hours and beta by the superfast and superefficient Jackfan2, in response to a Hurt & Comfort prompt by Mesedes03, who asked for: "... a Gen or Slash (J2 or Wincest) about how a guy tries to take advantage of Dean/Jensen, and badass+angry Sam/Jared suddenly rushes to the rescue, and later comforts Dean/Jensen. "

So, this is a general story without pairings (well, maybe a Dean/OMC, if you squint and cross your eyes), with some very mature situations but without crossing over to the graphic territory. Dean and Sam walk in to a bar and Sam's ass gets pinched... by a glass shard.

Set before 'Heaven and Hell'. Usual warnings for language and themes.

A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS

It was only thirty minutes… half of a fucking hour!

It would stand to reason that, given that the hunt was already over, they could actually relax and enjoy themselves for the night.

Instead, Sam is seating in a motel room's corner, holding his drugged brother as he shivers and sobs. How the fuck did it all go to hell so fast?

0o0o0o0o0

Compared to some of the stuff they'd done lately, compared with demons and angels and the damn apocalypse, Sam would say that putting down a 'simple' skin walker was like a walk in the park… if the park happened to have sharp teeth, long claws and a really bad mood.

As it was, the hunt had gone surprisingly well, giving both brothers a taste of victory that had been conspicuously and sadly absent from their lives lately.

So, obviously, Dean had wanted to celebrate. Properly.

It seemed as well that lately, all the times that they parked the Impala by the side of the road to have a beer and chill out for a bit, Dean ended up talking about things that he didn't care to talk about, or crying or actually doing both.

So, they'd moved their celebration to an actual bar this time. It was the worst decision that they could've made.

Not even the dim lights and the permanent coat of smoke that clustered inside the place could hide the dirty walls and the trashy tables and chairs. The establishment was fairly subdued, a couple of guys nursing their beers clutched in greasy looking hands, leaning against the wall not occupied with pool cues. A few other patrons occupied two other tables, looking somewhere between asleep or in coma on the table top.

The only guys that, at first glance, looked like they actually knew the meaning and purpose of 'taking a bath' were the trucker seated at the counter and the bartender behind it.

The first word that crossed Sam's mind as soon as he took a look at the dingy place was hepatitis. From there up, he tried no to touch things too much.

It would be pretty ridiculous to survive the apocalypse only to die of sepsis.

But, given that luck was such a close friend of his these days, that was exactly what happen, because Sam had to sit on the exact chair that had the glass shard in it.

With a yelp he jumped up, at first not really understanding what had happened. Then he reached behind, touched the wet spot on the bottom of his jeans, saw the blood stained glass on the chair, and understanding dawned. "Shit!"

Dean gave him a pointed look.

There was no way that Sam was about to tell his brother that he'd just pinched himself bloody in the ass. It was like handing out ammunition for free.

Sam excuses himself, saying he had to get something from the car and makes a quick exit, in search of gauze, massive amounts of antiseptic and possibly a tetanus shot.

The bar was nearly empty, Sam thought.

Dean's a grown up man, Sam thought.

I'll be in and out. Ten minutes. Tops.

When Sam returns half an hour later and finds his brother in the back alley, instead of playing pool like he said he would, Sam felt like the biggest idiot ever.

0o0o0o0o0o

Of course this would be the day that their antiseptic bottle would run dry, and of course this would be the town with the farthest pharmacy that there could be, and of course, the lady behind the counter had to be the slowest human being on the planet.

When Sam looked at his watch again, a good twenty minutes had gone by. He cursed, knowing that Dean would no doubt worry about his prolonged absence. Sam checked his phone for any missed calls, not in the mood to piss his brother of any further. The device was silent and quiet.

Something twisted inside Sam's gut and he rushed back to the bar, cut ass forgotten.

Sam wanted to think he was worrying over nothing. After all, normal people with normal lives don't usually stress out when they are apart from each other for just twenty minutes. Then again, normal and the name Winchester had never been on speaking terms. Ever. Sam increases his pace.

What's more, this was Dean, and Dean would hold Sam to his word that if he said ,'back in a couple of minutes', Sam had damn well better be back in just a couple of minutes. Their past was riddled with bad experiences of 'just a few minutes' turning in to hours and days of despair and angst and Sam had already vanished from under Dean's nose enough times for Sam to know that his brother would not only worry like a mother hen, he would fill his cell with inquiring calls.

Zero calls meant that it was Sam's turn to worry.

Not much had changed inside the bar, except for Dean, who was nowhere in sight, the beer he'd been drinking now joined by another half full bottle. Sam grabbed his phone and dialed Dean's number.

While he stood there, waiting and counting the rings until Dean's gruffy, prerecorded voice answered him demanding a message to be left, Sam looked around the bar. The same guys that had been leaning against the far wall were now at the counter, laughing and talking conspicuously with the man behind it. The nice looking man that had sat there before was nowhere to be seen.

Sam closed his phone and walked to the bar. "Hey, you've seen the guy that was seating right there?"

The snickers were so badly hidden that Sam wondered why they even bothered.

"Lost your boyfriend?" Said one of the patrons, badly trimmed beard and a couple of teeth missing from his front porch. "I think he found himself some distraction real quick."

Sam was a smart guy. He even had a high SAT score that said so. The guy didn't have to imply much more for Sam to connect the dots. His right fist flew and connected with smartass guy number one, while his left elbow joined his buddy's nose before he could even react in defense of the other.

Sam paid no attention to the two hicks, each holding his bloody nose, blind for the moment. Sam's attention was on the bartender, who had lost his will to snicker.

"Where is he?" Sam asked quietly, his voice dropping a couple of tones.

"Fuck you, faggot!" The bartender snarled, his courage going only as far as he could reach the weapon beneath his counter.

Hunter's reflex made Sam faster. One hand on the counter was all he needed to jump over and land in the bartender's personal space. The overweight man probably reached Sam's armpits. Sam loomed over him, one hand sneaking around his sweaty neck and slamming the man's face against the counter. Teeth and bottles rattled with the force of the impact.

"Where. Is. He?" Sam asked calmly, each word punctuated with a slam and a yelp of pain from the man.

The bartender pointed a shaky finger in the back door's direction. "It wasn't my idea, ok?" He managed to spit out, his teeth bloody and one crocked at least. "The guy just paid me to slip som-"

Sam had stopped listening. The kick he threw in between the sleazy man's legs should be enough to keep him down and dickless for a couple of weeks. Just their luck, to run in to the one bar around there whose bartender was in the business of renting his customers.

Sam ran outside, blood pumping red and hot as the possibilities ran through his head.

He found Dean easily enough. The guy that they had seen seated at the bar had his brother propped up against a couple of pilled boxes, his pants and boxers down, while he fumbled with his own zipper. Dean seemed totally out of it, looking like the boxes were the only thing keeping him upright.

"Hey!" Sam shouted.

It was the only warning that the pervert got. Next thing he knew, Sam was on top of him, blind with fury and wanting nothing more than to paint the walls with this guy's blood.

Which, given what Sam did for a living and the fact that, in his brother's absence he had to buff himself up to compensate his one-man team, the man was lucky to live to breath another day. Even if he would have to suck his meals through a straw for the next couple of weeks.

It was actually Dean's groan that stopped Sam's bloody fist from landing another punch to the man's already mashed face. Sam let the man fall to the dirty ground, landing two more kicks to his ribs just to cool down, before turning to his brother.

Dean was trying to pull his pants up and failing miserably.

"Let me help you with that," Sam said gently, not sure of how much of what had happened there his brother was aware of… not sure himself of how much had happened there. He spared a look to see just what condition his brother was in and reassured himself that he had in fact arrived just in time.

Well, at least in time to stop something worse from happening.

Dean looked at him, head lolling to the side as if he couldn't recognize Sam if he looked at him straight. Dean's green eyes were completely black, pupils blown wide and glassy. He was drugged to his gills.

Sam didn't wait for his brother's consent. It was obvious from what he'd witness that Dean wasn't calling the shots in his own head or body.

Dean was pliable as a child as Sam pulled his clothes up and led him back to the car, sparing one more second to land another kick to the fallen man. Had it not been for the unwanted attention, Sam would've probably given in to the urge of pulling out his gun and emptying a clip in that bastard's junk.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

By the time that Sam had actually found a motel that didn't looked like the Bates Hotel, managed to secure them a room and drag his drugged brother inside, Dean was starting to come down from his involuntary high.

On the one hand, Sam was relieved that, whatever the guy had slipped Dean's drink was wearing off on its own… On the other, it also meant Dean crashing down. Hard.

And that was how Sam ended up with his sobbing brother, seating together in a corner of their motel room, as Dean hugged his knees and rocked back and forth, his spotty memory of the evening's events being filled by even more nasty memories.

From the way Dean kept whispering about demons and the name Alistair in fearful and gasping breaths, Sam had no doubts about which memories he was using to fill in the blanks.

Until the drug ran its course, there was nothing that Sam could do but hold Dean and keep him as grounded as he could. While Dean gave little to no details of the trials he'd endured in the pit, Sam was certain that the little taste of Hell on earth tonight had send his brother back in to his personal Hell below.

Sam hopped that, like most ruffies, Dean would remember nothing of this night the following day.

Sam prayed that, whoever this Alistair demon was, Dean would never have to face him again.

Sam planned that, come morning, he would go back to that sleazy bar and burn the thing to the ground.

Sam swore that, if this Alistair or that guy from the bar ever crossed their paths again, they would both die. Humans or demons, just as long as they behaved as monsters, they were Sam's game.

The end


End file.
